


Stitching Sunlight

by hidden_snitch_in_an_alcove



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (I'm so thoroughly in love with Gwen it's not even funny), (then again so is Morgana), Canon Era, F/F, Gen, I had a tab open with the google search for "Angel Coulby's smile" while writing this, Kid Fic, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Swordfighting, purely for reference mind you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:42:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26618386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidden_snitch_in_an_alcove/pseuds/hidden_snitch_in_an_alcove
Summary: Morgana - furious at her guardian's sexist twat of a son - runs off in a temper into the Lower Town. When she falls and rips her dress, she dissolves into panic, but is saved from the embarrassment of walking back home with her underwear exposed by a young girl with a basket of flowers......who, apparently, can also teach her how to wallop Arthur's arse in a sword fight.
Relationships: Gwen/Morgana (Merlin), Morgana & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 39





	Stitching Sunlight

A young Lady Morgana stormed through the lower town, brandishing her training sword with a furious scowl, eyes alight with flaming vengeance. 

The townspeople scrambled out of her way as she blazed past like a wildfire, viciously kicking at fallen crates, rolling produce and tangles of straw scattered through the street. She swung her wooden blade wildly with a loud war cry, dispersing a flock of chickens in an explosion of squawks and feathers, spitefully pleased at the fearful cries that followed her. 

As she marched on, the long, swishing skirt of her dress billowed in her wake like a battle flag, and she vowed that if she did one day go to war, her first victims would be Arthur Pig-Head Pendragon and his slimy little band of sycophants. 

She growled at the memory of that morning. 

(A father pulled his son to hide behind his back, glaring at her in chastisement. She ignored him and kicked over a barrel.) 

How _dare_ they laugh at her, the _Lady_ Morgana: daughter of the Great Warrior, Gorlois; Ward of _King_ _Uther_ ; their superior in _everything_... Especially brains, she snarled to herself, savagely baring her teeth at a pair of women, who’d been pointing at her and whispering behind cupped hands.

Anyone with even an ounce of honour might’ve helped her up after she’d fallen, but Arthur - that worthless, imbecilic, scum-of-the-Earth _braggart_ \- had swaggered around, getting clapped on the back by his kiss-arse cronies for the supposed glory of defeating his father’s charge. 

Earlier that day, Morgana had gone down to the training ground to find the squires tussling on the grass like a pack of wild beasts. She’d been bored - terribly so, and with Uther occupied with Lord Godwyn, there wasn’t much to do for a Lady of Nobility, perhaps apart from brushing her own hair - otherwise she wouldn’t have given the bastards any time of day. 

She’d rolled her eyes at the barbaric display, then cast her gaze around the field, until it landed on the discarded training weapons piled haphazardly against a changing tent. 

Picking up one of the swords, she’d waltzed up to the boys and stared down her nose at them until she’d had their full attention, at which point she’d challenged them to a duel. 

Admittedly, that may have been her first mistake. 

They’d all stared at her, then looked around at each other.

Then one of the little twits had let out an ugly snort, and they’d all collapsed into howls of laughter, rolling around in a truly heathen manner. 

Affronted, Morgana had thrust the sword at the squire sprawled nearest to her - a dull-faced beanpole of a boy whose name Morgana did not know, nor cared to - and pointed it straight between his brows. He’d leaned back in alarm, going cross eyed to keep the sword point in sight, and the rest of the boys had fallen silent. 

With grim satisfaction, she’d issued the challenge again, only for Prince Arthur to be the one to step forward and take up the gauntlet. 

Therein lay her second mistake. 

That, she reflected, would’ve been her prime opportunity to stand down, for she knew that she didn’t stand a chance against her guardian’s son. He was already known throughout the kingdom as a prodigy of swordsmanship, even at the awkward age of thirteen. If she _had_ backed out, it would’ve been with minimal shame. 

If anything, it would have been seen as _sensible_. 

But a sudden manic urge to wipe the floor with that cocky smirk simmered inside her, and she'd found herself lowering into a battle stance. Arthur had mirrored her with a feral grin. 

Naturally, she hadn’t lasted very long. 

Watching her father fight as a child was apparently _not_ sufficient practice for beating an actual knight-in-training. 

Still, she thought, Arthur didn’t have to be such a damned prat about it. As she’d lain, thoroughly defeated at Arthur’s feet, he’d put on that self-satisfied expression again and tossed his fringe out of his eyes. 

“And _that_ ,” he’d drawled, brushing non-existent dirt from his tunic, “is why _girls_ shouldn’t fight.” 

Then he’d turned on his heel and headed back to his cheering friends, leaving her in the literal dust. 

Utterly humiliated, she’d gingerly picked herself and her sword up from the ground and started off in the opposite direction. As she'd stumbled away, she could hear the cruel jeers and shouts of “useless girl!” following her from the field.

When she’d recognised Arthur’s voice yelling “stick to ballgowns and babies next time!” her ears had burned red and she’d flounced down the cobblestone road into town, positively seething. 

It was unfathomable, she thought as she upturned another crate with a sharp _thwack:_ truly inconceivable, was the extent of Arthur’s superiority complex. He’d beaten her, sure, but then he’d had to go and make _fun_ of her; snickering about her failure, turning her into a _joke_ amongst the other young nobles... 

And - okay, so she would’ve rubbed his face in it if she’d won, but it wouldn’t have stung as much if he’d not _immediately_ dismissed her. She’d seen him beat his peers in mini-tournaments countless times, but after each victory he’d help his opponent to his feet and they’d run off jostling and laughing, like friends - like _equals_. 

Clearly, Arthur Pendragon didn’t see Morgana as either, though she’d thought (stupidly) that they’d reached that point after so many years. After all they’d done together - all their in-jokes and midnight kitchen heists, the horse-races through the forest and blankets shared when one of them was having nightmares - she _could not_ _believe_ that he’d demean her like that… genuinely, _honestly_ , could not believe it. 

She glared at the ground. 

No, she amended, lips pulling into a disgusted sneer; she could believe it. Arthur had never been anything but a spoilt, arrogant little arsewipe, who thought he was _so much better_ than her because he was a _boy_. 

She’d been a fool to believe any different.

The young Lady was so absorbed in her ire that she barely managed to notice the rapidly approaching cart in time. 

_“Watch out!”_

The clattering of the wooden wheels accelerated to a roar as it raced over the cobbles, and Morgana tripped over her skirt as she threw herself to the ground out of the way, screams of other pedestrians piercing the air around her. She recoiled as the cart thundered by, breathing heavily, and drew her knees up to her heaving chest. 

It was then that she noticed her third screw-up of the day. 

Where deep blue material should’ve been draped over her legs, instead glared the stark white linen of her undergarments. 

Cheeks heating with mortification, Morgana glanced desperately about herself and let out a shuddering gasp as her gaze fell on the two halves of the once-whole skirt, pooling on either side of her lap. 

She must’ve ripped it when she’d fallen, she thought frantically, and she grabbed at the wilted shreds of material to try and preserve her modesty. 

People around the street were beginning to emerge from their houses and hiding spots to clear up the aftermath of the cart fiasco, so Morgana clambered to her feet and scurried into a narrow gap between two houses to avoid being seen. 

Concealed in the dark alleyway, Morgana looked down at the mess she’d made of herself and searched her mind for a solution. 

She couldn’t find one. 

The heavy thuds of her heart echoed in her ears like threats. Each breath caught more harshly the faster they grew, until barely any air was reaching her lungs at all. 

Morgana fumbled with the tattered streams of skirt but the silk kept slipping from her shaking fingers. 

She pressed her lips together to stop herself from screaming in frustration. 

What could she _possibly_ do now? She could hardly turn up back at the castle in such an indecent state, especially not with Lord Godwyn present; Uther would chuck her out into the _streets_ for causing him such embarrassment in front of another King. 

He already gave her such strange, regretful looks whenever they crossed paths.

A desperate noise burst from her lips, halfway between a groan and a sob, and she threw down her skirt, stomping her foot forcefully against the ground. 

“Um - hello?” 

Morgana jolted as the sudden voice wrenched her from her hysteria. 

She whipped around to find who’d spoken, and came face-to-face with a girl - perhaps a couple of years younger than herself - in a simple dress of pretty yellow. Tight, bouncy curls were gathered and held by a butter-yellow ribbon atop her head, fanning out in fluffy disarray like a dandelion clock. She was frowning at Morgana in concern, head tilted slightly to one side. 

In her small hands, she clutched the handle of a basket filled with wildflowers; clusters of soft pinks and lilacs nestled amongst elegant blues, each bloom placed with such care so as to avoid bruising the delicate petals.

The girl reached into the basket and plucked a tuffet of meadowsweet from the pile. She eyed it critically for a short second, then nodded, and held it out towards Morgana. 

The King’s Ward merely stared at her, still caught up in shock. 

When Morgana didn’t accept the flower, the girl began to lower her hand and shrank into herself. 

“I’m - sorry. I mean, if you don’t want it, that’s - fine. I - only, you seemed sad - I think... maybe I’m not good at reading expressions…” the girl trailed off, starting to back away. She had ducked her head and was just starting to turn and leave when Morgana finally found her voice.

“No - wait!” 

The girl stopped. Morgana’s throat was rough from pending tears, so she cleared it before thrusting out a hand towards her. She determinedly held the girl’s gaze in spite of the blush darkening her cheeks.

“I’d like the flower,” she clipped out, attempting to conceal her awkwardness with stiff formality. She winced internally at how rude it sounded. 

However, the girl didn’t appear to mind, and the exuberant beam that lit up her features thawed nearly all remnants of the icy panic that Morgana had previously been consumed by. She basked in the blossoming warmth as the girl stepped forward again, raising the flower for Morgana to take. 

“I’m Guinevere,” she chirped, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, “but most people call me Gwen.”

Morgana cautiously pulled the flower from her fingers. She marvelled at the creamy buds, and then at the adorable girl who’d gifted it to her. 

“Thank you, Gwen.”

Gwen lowered her gaze, suddenly bashful. She fiddled with a loose cord of twine protruding from the handle of her basket. 

“It’s nothing,” she replied modestly, “I only wanted to cheer you up.” She paused for a second, pressing her lips together as though she wanted to ask something, but didn’t want to overstep. Curiosity appeared to win out, however, and she met Morgana’s eye with gentle earnest. “Why were you upset?”

Morgana - still glowing slightly from Gwen’s kindness - fingered her skirts with the hand not holding the flower. She let out a resigned sigh.

“I ripped my dress," she replied, "and I can’t go back home like this. My guardian would kill me for shaming him in front of Lo- in front of our guest.”

She pulled apart the expansive folds to show Gwen the jagged gash, the petticoat beneath boldly visible. 

Gwen tutted sympathetically.

“It _is_ a lovely dress…” she frowned at the skirt in consideration. “I’m not - the _best_ or anything, but I can do some simple stitches. I rip my skirts plenty on the brambles around the forest while flower-picking.” She lifted a leg slightly to draw Morgana’s attention to the patched-up tears in her own garment. “I could do a quick mend if you’d like, good enough for you to stay decent in front of your guest, at least.”

Morgana’s heart fluttered with hope. 

“You can do that?” 

Gwen nodded, smiling reassuringly.

“Again - I’m not the best. Mum’s much better than me, but I’ll do what I can.”

With that, she gently placed her basket against the wooden wall to one side of the alleyway and dropped down to kneel at Morgana’s feet. 

Morgana gaped incredulously as Gwen whipped a reel of yellow threat, a needle and a dozen pins from seemingly nowhere. The girl gave her a secretive smile. 

“‘A good seamstress is never without a needle and thread’. Or so says my mum.” 

Morgana eyed the girl all over for a secret compartment from which she could’ve withdrawn the sewing supplies.

“Where did they come from?” she demanded, “You just pulled them out of thin air - like magic!” 

Gwen's eyes widened with alarm. She shook her head vigorously in denial.

Morgana could already see her new companion dissolving into panic and rushed to assure her that she’d been kidding and _no_ , she wasn’t going to get her executed. 

Gwen sagged in relief. She twisted to the left, pulling on either side of her dress’ seam to show off a skilfully concealed gap just above her waist, just the right size for a hand to fit into. 

“It’s a pocket!” She grinned up at Morgana, eyes glittering with pride. 

Gwen had the most adorable dimples when she smiled, Morgana noted. She blushed and mentally smacked the thought into submission. 

Feeling warm, she turned her gaze down to her own dress. 

Gwen had already taken the two sides of the split skirt and was deftly pinning them together from top to bottom. Morgana watched in slight awe as the girl intermittently drew pins from between pursed lips and wove each one through the blue silk. 

Once Gwen had inserted the final pin, she unravelled a length of thread from her reel and snapped it between clenched teeth. 

“How’d you rip it so badly, anyway?” she asked. Her face was scrunched up in concentration as she fumbled to poke the thread into the needle’s eye. 

Morgana took a moment before answering, too enraptured by the coils of soft hair that’d escaped Gwen’s ribbon, sticking up to frame her face like a halo. Truly an apt comparison, she mused, before internally snapping at herself to shut it. Out loud, she answered: 

“I was angry at my guardian’s son, so I wasn’t really concentrating on the road ahead, and then had to jump out of the way of an escaped cart. I think it got caught on something as I fell.” 

Gwen gave her a questioning glance. 

“Why were you angry?” 

The corners of Morgana’s lips downturned as her mind rehashed all the drama of that morning. 

“We were sword fighting.” At Gwen’s raised eyebrows, Morgana nodded to her discarded practice weapon, still lying out in the open street. Gwen turned to follow her gaze, then looked back at Morgana, dipping her head once in a prompt for the young noblewoman to continue. Morgana sighed. “I wanted to prove that I could fight just as well as him. I used to watch my father all the time - he was a knight, you see - and I was sure that I could replicate what I’d seen him do.” Her frown deepened. “I tried, but he - my guardian’s son, that is - used this move that knocked me flat about ten seconds into the fight. I didn’t recognise it - I think he might’ve grabbed my wrist… but I didn’t even know what was happening before I was on the ground.” 

Gwen had begun stitching the tear closed with rhythmic, purposeful movements, and Morgana was momentarily hypnotised by the repetition of the thread being pulled taut, then slackening again as Gwen’s nimble fingers worked their way down the length of the dress. The girl didn’t pause in her work as she replied:

“If you showed me how you fight, I could give you some pointers.” She quirked a smile and her eyes flickered up briefly to meet Morgana’s. “My father’s a blacksmith,” she explained, “so you could say I know my way around swords.”

Morgana had never particularly liked fairy tales of princesses being saved by a charming hero and falling in love at first sight, but now that she was apparently living in one, she found that she didn’t mind at all. 

“Plus,” Gwen continued, oblivious to Morgana’s mental preparations to propose on the spot, “one of my friends is a squire, and he’s taught me a few things.”

She huffed a little as the thread caught in the fabric, and gave it a few sharp tugs until it came free. 

Morgana slowly shook her head in disbelief. 

“You can sew,” she muttered, mostly to herself, “and you can sword fight.” she gazed at Gwen, not bothering to hide the reverence she felt, as the girl blinked up at her. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

Gwen’s face took an expression of dismay, even as she blushed at Morgana’s admiration. 

“I promise I’m not - boasting or - or anything, I’m really not that good -”

“No,” Morgana said, cutting her off firmly, “Gwen, you _are_ . You _are_ that good. I think it’s _wonderful_ that you can do all these things, even if you’re not the best at them.” 

The poor girl floundered, clearly at a loss for how to reply to such outright esteem, and accidentally pricked a thumb on one of her pins. She let out a squeak of shock and popped the injured finger into her mouth, glaring at Morgana as though it were her fault. 

Morgana grinned back at her. 

Gwen’s blush darkened and she ducked her head, resuming her work with renewed focus, though Morgana didn’t fail to notice the tiny smile gracing her lips. 

After a few more moments of Gwen stitching (and Morgana shamelessly staring), the girl sat back on her haunches to review her work. 

“There,” she breathed, gathering the pins she’d removed and popping them back into her pocket, “All done.”

“You’re finished?” Morgana bent over to grab her hem so that she could see the end product for herself. 

The two split sides had been married together with small, horizontal stitches all the way down from waist to hemline. Some of them were larger than others, some slightly askew. The fabric had puckered in places, and the coarse, yellow wool was a bold contrast to the fine, indigo silk of the original gown. 

“It’s - not the best, I know - I’m still learning how to properly mend, and-”

“Gwen.” It appeared to be becoming a habit for Morgana to interrupt Gwen’s self-deprecating rambles, but she simply couldn’t listen to the girl talk down about herself - especially since she was, quite honestly, the best person Morgana had ever met. She ran a finger over the cheery little strokes, remembering the look of complete care on Gwen’s face as she’d created each one, and vowed to herself that Gwen would never doubt herself again if she could help it. 

The girl in question was still kneeling before her, tense and unsure. She had her bottom lip gripped between her teeth, head tilted downwards, and she peered at Morgana nervously from behind lowered lashes. 

The sun had risen high above them in the time they’d been together, and light had dawned through the alleyway, casting Gwen’s knelt form in a bright, glimmering ray. She may have been a commoner, Morgana thought, but in that moment, she looked as though she was about to be crowned. 

The King’s Ward extended a hand to pull the girl to her feet, which Gwen took after only a moment’s hesitation. 

She then immediately tugged her new friend into a hug, smiling into Gwen’s neck when she squealed in surprise. Her grin spread when the girl hesitantly returned the embrace, wrapping her skinny arms around Morgana’s waist. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, squeezing Gwen tightly before pulling back. The girl smiled sunnily, wide enough to match Morgana’s own. 

They stared at each other, and Morgana was just thinking that she’d be happy to stay like that for the rest of her life, when Gwen’s eyes expanded in sudden realisation. 

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” she said in a rush, “I never asked for your name!”

Morgana hesitated. She glanced a little sorrowfully at the flower still clasped between her fingertips, and wondered if Gwen would back off once she learned who she was truly dealing with. She knew what her reputation was among the general populace; to say she was infamous for her temper was putting it mildly (plus, she supposed, she probably hadn’t done much to refute the impression with her little tantrum that morning). 

“I mean - if you don’t want to say for whatever weird reason, that’s - wait, not that your reason is weird, but if you’d rather not tell me-”

Morgana couldn’t help but smile fondly. 

“It’s fine, Gwen.” She sucked in a breath, hoping against hope that Gwen wouldn’t see her differently, or - God forbid - start to fear her. “My name is Morgana.”

As was expected, Gwen’s jaw dropped, and her face took on a look of absolute astonishment. 

“You’re the King’s Ward!” she gasped. Morgana watched in trepidation as puzzle pieces slotted together behind Gwen’s eyes. When they began to narrow, she could feel her heart start beating faster as she was slowly filled with dread.

“Hang on...” Gwen started, and Morgana thought she might throw up from sheer terror, “That means - your guardian’s son is _Prince Arthur_.” 

Slightly thrown by the direction Gwen’s mind had taken, Morgana could only nod in confirmation (she was _not_ about to risk opening her mouth when she felt so ill). 

Gwen’s lovely face morphed into a glower of indignation. She clenched her fists, expression rapidly darkening, apparently offended by something to do with Morgana’s sort-of-brother. 

“It was Leon!” she cried abruptly, and she spun ‘round on her heel, stomping off into the street. Morgana, utterly baffled, gaped at the budding seamstress as she snatched up the abandoned training sword and made her way back to the alley, flushed with purpose. There was a spirited gleam in her eyes as she thrust the sword at Morgana, handle first. “Remember I told you about my squire friend?”

Morgana cautiously took the sword, if only because Gwen looked a little scary with a blade in her hands. She nodded. 

“Well,” Gwen went on, “His name is Leon. Mum works as a maid in his household. And he’s _very_ good at sword fighting.” 

Morgana, still lost, continued to stare. 

Gwen huffed a small noise of frustration and flapped her hands around, drilling her gaze into Morgana's as though to ask _d_ _on’t you see?_

Since Morgana didn’t, she just shrugged apologetically. 

Gwen threw her arms up with a groan (how even _that_ was so endearing, Morgana had to wonder). Charged up with fizzling energy, she paced from one end of the alley to the other, each turn executed with a flourish, as she explained: 

“Leon is a squire, soon to be a Knight. He's friends with Prince Arthur (even though he’s older than him) but he’s also friends with _me -_ we practically _grew up_ together! He’s the one who showed me how to actually _fight_ with a sword rather than just make one.” 

She came to a stop and faced Morgana head-on.

“He showed me this move once - one where you _grab your opponent’s wrist_ ,” she stressed, eyes ignited by her excitement, “and _fling_ them to the ground.”

She threw an arm out to one side in demonstration, grinning widely. 

“And,” she continued, voice conspiringly lowered, “since he showed it to _me_ ,” she paused dramatically, and slowly pointed at her own chest before gesturing gracefully to Morgana, “ _I_ can show it to _you_.”

She was practically bubbling over with enthusiasm, and Morgana found herself once again enthralled by the picture she made: with errant, glossy curls dancing about her flushed, beaming face; warm, nut brown eyes crinkled at the corners; tawny, mellow skin slightly damp with perspiration, shining in the midday sun; the rumpled amber dress, dusty at the knees where she’d been knelt on the ground; feet planted a shoulder’s width apart, hands outstretched in a grand finale, eagerly anticipating Morgana’s response. 

Morgana, as it happened, was too afraid that said response would end up being a clumsily blurted declaration of affection if she were to open her mouth right then. She tried to quell the racing of her heart with a few calming breaths, then offered Gwen a weak smile once she was slightly more sure that she wouldn’t immediately expose herself. 

“That would be brilliant,” she finally replied, though (to her chagrin) it still came out in a smitten gush, and Morgana spent a few seconds angsting over whether or not Gwen could hear the tangible “I love you” in her tone. 

Gwen’s grin softened to a tender smile - like the cosy haze after the first blinding rays of morning sun ( _damn_ , _she'd_ _heard it_ ) - and she took a step forward. 

Morgana knew her cheeks must’ve bloomed a vivid fuchsia with how hot they had grown, and she tensed at the girl’s steady approach. 

Gwen - perceptive as she was - gave the sheepish, young aristocrat a comforting smile, and lightly clasped the wrist of the hand with which Morgana held her sword. 

“Here,” she said, barely above a whisper, “let me show you.” 

Morgana, rendered temporarily useless by her embarrassment, simply allowed her limbs to be guided into the correct positions, and she let Gwen’s soothing prattles wash over her as she relaxed into the firm, yet gentle touch. She found, as time peacefully drifted on, that she couldn’t keep the smile off her face, and she and Gwen spent the next few hours laughing as they capered about their little hideaway, scuffling playfully and twirling the sword high above their heads with cries of victory, content and carefree, in the dazzling afternoon sun. 

The time came and went for Morgana to head back, and she finally tore herself from her new friend to trudge drowsily up to the citadel, dragging the sword along the paving behind her. When people stopped to stare at the King’s dishevelled Ward - with flowers in her hair and dust on her cheeks - she lifted her chin and took hold of the side of her skirt, spreading out the material to proudly display Gwen’s handiwork. The girl had suggested that she have the stitches unpicked by a professional seamstress once she’d gotten back to the castle, but Morgana had adamantly refused, telling her that the dress had officially become one of her favourites. 

The memory of Gwen’s blush at the proclamation made her grin. 

Later that evening - after she’d been yelled at by (and yelled back at) King Uther, when reports of her public outburst reached his ears - she’d adoringly hung the dress in her wardrobe, stroking her hand down the front to feel the evidence of that afternoon’s events, picturing Gwen’s smile with one of her own. 

Long weeks and months passed by, with Morgana confined to the citadel, as Uther no longer trusted her to maintain decorum in public, though the memory of her dear new friend never waned in her mind. She remembered her with each sun-filled morning that she peered into her wardrobe to change, with every sweet-scented wildflower she picked during strolls in the castle gardens, and with each slack-jawed expression Arthur gave her when she trounced him on the training field. 

When, perhaps a year later, Uther called her from her chambers to pick a new maid from a line-up of skittish serving-girls, she’d dismissed them all without sparing them a glance, and had instead demanded the service of the daughter to a blacksmith named Tom. 

That afternoon, she’d waited anxiously on the castle steps, eyes fixed desperately on the archways on the other side of the courtyard. She was wearing her blue dress - Uther had despaired over the “shoddy mend”, but she’d pointedly ignored him - and was clutching a hand-picked bouquet of sunflowers in a clammy fist. Her heart had lodged in her throat by the time she’d finally spotted Gwen - escorted by a castle guard - rounding the corner and looking adorably nervous, and Morgana had almost thrown herself down the stairs in her hurry to reach her friend. 

Gwen’s face split into a vast smile upon noticing her, and she ran to meet her in the middle. They threw their arms around each other in unison, clinging on breathlessly, whispering _“I missed you”_ s into each other’s shoulders over and over again, and silently promising - with each laugh of sheer, insuppressible joy - that they’d never be parted again. 

_End._   
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This... is my first fic on here.  
> Not that I've never written before - because I do write, a lot. I've just never had the confidence to post any of my writing before now (I say as though I'm not currently sweating from sheer nerves).  
> In the past months (especially these last few weeks) however, I've received so much encouragement from some truly lovely people that I decided to give this a go. (I haven't actually told anyone I'm doing this, because I don't want them to feel obligated to read it. They'd probably regret telling me to post at all).  
> I do have several other stories still in-the-works, but for some reason the idea of Gwen sewing pockets into Morgana's ballgowns came to me (probably because it's a universal pet-peeve that dresses tend to lack places to put your wallet) and this just sort of... emerged. I realise now that I've sort of written canon Morgana in reverse, with her starting out vindictively wanting Arthur's head on a spike, and then eventually becoming Gwen's best friend.  
> I'm sorry if there are glaring errors that I've missed - I'm the only one who's seen this, yet, and I'm a bit sleep-deprived.  
> Please, do give feedback. As I mentioned, I don't show anyone my work, so I have no idea how it all sounds to other people.  
> Thank you so much for taking the time to read this, if you managed to get through it!


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